


Dare

by TropeKing24 (orphan_account)



Category: South Park
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Implied Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski & Stan Marsh Friendship, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TropeKing24
Summary: StanxKyle. "Kyle climbs in through the window that afternoon, clambering from the narrow tree branches into the sun-spackled haven of Stan's room.





	Dare

Kyle climbs in through the window that afternoon, clambering from the narrow tree branches into the sun-spackled haven of Stan's room. His friend looks up from his position on the bed, ear buds falling carelessly from his head.

"Dude!" Stan whispers harshly, almost leaping to greet him. A grimace pulls across his face.

"I'm grounded, Kyle! My mom will kill me if she catches you—"

"Stan. It's cool," the Jewish boy dismisses, red curls falling loose around his head. His skin is white gold in the sun as it shatters through the leaves outside. He sits on Stan's desk, which faces away from the window, parallel to the wall, to take advantage of the light. Stan fills the space behind it, pulling Kyle over with him.

"It sort of isn't…" Stan whispers, lowering himself into the armchair behind the desk. Kyle sits against the wall beside him, catching a few lucid sunbeams in his hair.

"I won't get caught, Stan. Besides, why would your mom even come up here?" he argues lightheartedly. Stan softens, the clouds shifting to let the sun sweep his cheek with radiance. Kyle smiles gamely up at him, his verdant eyes illumined.

In a broken second, the bedroom door opens. Stan's hand finds the softness of Kyle's loose curls and pushes, forcing him down under the desk by his legs. They adjust to each other's space; Stan finds he has to open his knees to fit his friend in between them. Something about the brush of Kyle's cheek against his thigh jolts him.

"Hey, kiddo," his mom bubbles, laying a pile of laundry on the bed, "You doing homework?"

"Oh," he responds, improvising, "yeah. Just a paper for English, no big." Kyle shifts along his leg, breath rolling over his flesh through his jeans. He wants to close his legs, to put some distance between his crotch and his friend, because subtle feelings are accumulating in his groin unwillingly and Stan has realized that he is in one of the worse scenarios for that to occur. His anatomy has no such concerns.

"Really? Oh let me see!" Mrs. Marsh exclaims, coming around to the desk. Stan scoots his chair inward, crushing Kyle against the inside of the desk to hide him. Suddenly his face is buried in the musk of denim and Stan, and the incomplete firmness of his flesh brands heat on Kyle's cheek. The Jewish boy squirms against it, trying to pry his face away and regain his dignity, but space is limited. Stan unwittingly hardens against the friction.

"It's just a sample treatise," Stan explains, his voice measured, "on a principle of government we got to select ourselves. It's pretty easy." The paper he displays is an essay from last year's Civics class; one he wrote but never turned in. His mom leans over, and Stan, worried that Kyle will be visible, buoys him to one side with his thighs. He finds Kyle's hot breath puffing over his hardness, a delicate tease. Feeling Kyle flinch as his cock jumps out of habit, he forgets to heed his mother.

"—when I was in school."

"Oh really?" Stan exclaims, "How cool."

"Well, I'll leave you to it," she says, smiling as she shuts the door. Stan smiles back, ignoring the rising heat on his neck.

"Augh, Stan!" Kyle mutters, his lips moving against Stan's length. A stuttering breath escapes the black-haired boy, his head lolling back slightly, knees opening for access.

"Yeah, Kyle?" he says nonchalantly, rational thought abandoning him and vanishing in the smoky haze of lust.

"Your dick is on my face!" he calls, struggling beneath the desk.

"Stan? Everything okay in there?" Randy hollers, knocking on the door. Kyle stills.

"Yeah, fine. I just knocked some books over," Stan replied, opening his legs more and adjusting his erection to rest upwards on his stomach.

"Thanks," Kyle says, though his face is still pressed into Stan's groin. With some reluctance, Stan shifts the chair back slightly, allowing Kyle's head to pop out from under the desk. He rests his chin on Stan's hardness, the pressure somewhere between pain and pleasure. Stan looks down at the head in his lap, wishing.

"What's with that face, faggot?" Kyle whispers roughly, squinting at his friend's lustful expression. Stan leers over his nose.

"Why? Does it bug you, pussy?" he taunts, letting the tip of his tongue wiggle mockingly. Heat stains Kyle's face, his lips twisting into a pout.

"…No," the redhead responds flatly, annoyed at the dare. Kyle doesn't let his consternation manifest.

"Really?" Stan croons, using a particular frequency of voice intended to incense Kyle. His jaw clenches against Stan's hip.

"Yeah! Really!" Kyle whispers roughly, aggravated. "I don't even care! It's no big deal."  
Stan withholds laughter as his friend makes a dismissive noise through his lips.

"So this doesn't bug you?" Stan challenges, haughty yet with quiet intensity. Kyle feels the length leap against his jaw through the denim.

"No!" he grits, irritation creasing his freckled face. "Don't be a douche. You can't get to me, you know. I'm cool."

"Dare you to kiss it," Stan mutters, his tone on the cusp of an invitation. Kyle holds his gaze.

'Please kiss it.'

Tentatively, eyes locked, Kyle tips his chin down and purses his lips against the firm shaft, his countenance not quite challenging. The ghost of a moan slips between them.

"Fag," Kyle mutters against the strained fabric, flashing Stan a pretty glare.

"Who's the fag? You just kissed my dick," Stan retorts, almost breathlessly.

"Excuse me?" his friend scoffs, "I'm not the gayface who's getting all hard over another dude."

As though to demonstrate, Kyle grates his teeth lightly over the length of his friend, reveling in the success of Stan's rolling hips.

"Uh, fag!" the dark-haired boy groans, fingertips blanching as he grips the arms of the easy chair.

"Double fag," Kyle mutters sensually, eyelids drooping. Stan feels a pressure against his cock, and then his pants loosen as Kyle tugs the button loose with his teeth.

"Triple," Stan mumbles back, daring to entangle his fingers in Kyle's hair.

"Quadruple," the Jew hisses, his tongue lathing over the rough pattern of Stan's boxers. "and I'm not the one about to jizz over another guy."

"Oh please," Stan murmurs, "I'm hardly about to jizz. You aren't that good."

"Come on, Stan," Kyle challenges, mouthing over the thin fabric, "don't deny it. You're about to explode and you know it."

"There's no way you could make me," Stan taunts back, feeling the tension rise between them.

"Is that a bet?"

"You bet your ass."

"Deal—ahn!"

Stan stifles the cry. Kyle's mouth, Kyle's sweet, hot mouth and that smooth tongue are on him, boxers and pants pushed aside, forgotten on his thighs. The friction is teasing, but the heat and wetness more than make up for it. He finds himself suddenly inside his friend's mouth, the sensitive tip worked in firm patterns by that little pink tongue. He can't comprehend what Kyle is doing to him, or how, and tangles his fingers in the vibrant curls over his lap to ensure that it's real. The door opens again, breaking his daze, and Stan forces Kyle beneath the desk, accidently shoving himself deeper into his mouth. Kyle works him dutifully, teasing and stroking and doing sinful, incredible things with his lips and tongue.

"Everything okay in here, Stan? I heard you yell a little," Randy asks, leaning in the doorframe.

"Yeah," Stan replies, almost unable to make a sound that isn't a moan. "I dropped some of those books on my toe. I'm okay."

"Be more careful with those books, Stan, we shelled out for your damage fees last year," Randy scolds, and the sweet-hot, scalding wet pressure of Kyle's mouth moves stubbornly slow, up and down his needy flesh. Stan swears he can feel every slick millimeter slide regretfully out, and then the soft head is flicked and teased by the firm tongue within. Just as slowly, his length is consumed again, delicious friction, though unbearably gentle. He bumps the back of Kyle's throat, which is closed to him for fear of choking.

"I will, the pages are okay," Stan responds, relieved that his voice sounds relatively normal. His hand finds its way into those soft curls, gently insisting that Kyle take him deeper. The barrier softens, providing new space until Kyle's nose rests in the point of the fine arrow of hair that lances along Stan's abdomen. There is a moment of confusion, hesitation, and Kyle's throat moves, flexes around him and Stan feels the heat rise on his neck, a cry caught in his throat like a marble.

"That's what they charge for most, I hear," Randy comments, missing the motion as Stan deliberately relaxes his posture. "You coming down for dinner? Mom said you were busy with schoolwork, so I'll set aside a plate if you'd rather eat later."

"Yeah, Dad, that'd be great. Thanks."

"Sure, Stan."

The door closed, and Stan waited half a second before releasing his moan.

"Fuck, Kyle…"

The tight mouth slips away.

"Don't be a fag," he replies, breath coating the moist, hard flesh. Kyle compensates with his hand in slow strokes. "You don't have the guts to take me."  
Stan moves, tearing away and rushing to his bedroom door, his cock still firm and visible as he twists the lock. With all of his teenaged haste, and frustration at his falling pants, Stan wastes no time removing them and the rest of his clothing. He isn't as thin as Kyle, with residual muscle tone from football season, and his hair retains the shape that his hat bestowed. Kyle had extracted himself from the desk, confused and almost hurt until Stan's intentions took shape.

"I'll prove it, fuckface," he groans, approaching his friend with lustful intensity. It is more an act of devouring than a kiss, but Kyle grows at the feeling, though already unwittingly hard from torturing Stan. He finds himself grabbed, thrown, just like the fake wrestling matches they had in middle school, but this time Stan is naked and hard over him, working his mouth mercilessly across the Jew's exposed neck, pushing away his clothes until they become a tangled mess of nude on the bed. A clicking sound, and Kyle remembers finding a shoplifted bottle of lubricant in Stan's nightstand a year or so ago, understanding the common sexual frustrations that come with double-digits. Ghosting at the rim, Stan won't give him what he wants. What he needs.  
Kyle feels the slickness there, waiting, smoothing over his entrance in teasing strokes that twinge in his groin.

"Don't make assumptions that I can prove wrong, faggot," Stan whispers hotly, half tonguing the words into his ear. Whatever retort he has is stifled by the slow spearing of Stan's fingers, stretching and slicking where no object has ventured before. It isn't painful like he expects, not degrading with Stan's warm body covering him, Stan kissing him softly to chase away the doubts.

"I'm no, uh, fag," he struggles, the oxygenating blood that normally occupies his brain having diverted paths to more important conquests. Stan pauses, removing his fingers to trace one tip around the outside.

"Kyle. I'm about to fuck you in the ass. If you don't want that, I suggest you leave now," Stan says quite seriously, honesty providing a faint lucidity to his lust-clouded eyes. Kyle whimpers, squirming against his teasing touch. It's only a moment more before Stan pushes in, large and hot and oh god inside of him.

"Oh god, Stan, Stan you're inside…" Kyle mutters, blunt fingernails scraping ineffectually at Stan's back, legs aching to spread further, and then his hands are on the undersides of Kyle's slim thighs, pushing them back and driving himself deep, and somehow knowing to kiss away the moan that tears out of the redhead's throat. There is pain now, stretching, stinging, but faint and sensual, overwhelmed by the erotic knowledge that Stan is inside and god isn't it perfect. His cock lays hard, untouched between his legs.

"Touch me," Kyle breathes, and he isn't sure Stan heard him for how faint his request; his friend leans up, away, straining the angle of his cock inside of Kyle, and his hand grasps the virgin length nestled between his bowed legs. For a few minutes, Stan gives him the attention, the perfect fucking strokes and the keenly sweet yet unmoving pressure from within. A broken whimper—"I'm gonna—" and Stan releases him, thrusting in earnest until Kyle's cock leaps untouched, surging fluid over his abs. The ardent need to make fantastically epic love to Kyle keeps his rhythm from faltering, his strokes pushing the redhead through his orgasm and into a sexual limbo, where it all feels so lip-bitingly sensual that Kyle regrets his physical incapability of becoming hard just that moment. Stan swallows his soft moans, relishing the smoothness of his skin and the soft heat inside, until he shudders into Kyle's welcoming body, squeezing him ever closer until all that remains is shallow breaths and utter stillness.

He doesn't leave Kyle's body yet. His arms are almost frozen around that slim torso, his legs tangled and glued with sweat, and the sun warms his back where Kyle's body heat can't reach. When he finally pulls out, with utter care and very slowly, the unreserved satisfaction in Kyle's moan twinges in his groin. There is stillness here, in the late spring afternoon, with the sun declining but not yet set, and neither wishes to ruin their temporary truce. It is minutes or hours for which they remain nude and entangled, lax and sated, contemplating the recent chain of events. Kyle risks a glance at the alarm clock on Stan's nightstand and comments on his mother's neuroticism.  
With near reluctance, they clean and dress, somewhat awkward in motion. Stan accompanies Kyle to the window.

"So."

Kyle catches his eye, the sleepy sun gilding one side of his face and illumining that emerald orb.

"See you tomorrow?"

His responding smile is radiant, easy, relaxed in the late noon. Stan wouldn't confess to an invitation in those words, but Kyle hears one nonetheless. His body becomes a blur of orange and green against the thin spring snow, bounding off for the day. Stan watches him go, remaining silent by the window for frozen minutes afterward.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: thank you readers for your support. Boi Marsh signing out


End file.
